I Was a Communist for Rose Quartz!
by AllenbysEyes
Summary: Rose Quartz, bookseller and activist, dies mysteriously after testifying before HUAC in July 1950. Some, including her ex-lover Pearl and current partner Greg, considered Rose unfairly persecuted for her unorthodox beliefs; others, including the government, thought her the head of a dangerous spy ring in the nation's capital. Pearl and Greg must find the truth, whatever the cost.
1. Chapter 1

**July 2, 1950**

The police found Rose Quartz's body just after sunrise, surrounded by the books she'd loved.

 _Rose's Cooperative Bookshop_.

A modest store in the middle of Washington, not far from Embassy Row. Two rooms with a few shelves stacked with literature, along with a revolving shelf with new arrivals. There was a small backroom for speakers and meetings, and a little area for employees. Rose lived upstairs in an equally modest apartment.

At a glance, nothing distinguished it from a hundred other little bookstores in Washington. True, it was right next to Sheridan Circle and its equestrian statue, and the row of foreign embassies; many of its patrons were diplomats and State Department officials, recognizable by name if not necessarily appearance. But even that wasn't unusual; after all, DC was the capital, and government officials had to buy books _somewhere_.

Nothing remarkable. Unless you examined the books themselves. Names and titles to send chills up the spine of any red-blooded American.

Nonfiction books, old and new, by Stetson Kennedy, Owen Lattimore, George Seldes, I.F. Stone. Novels by Upton Sinclair and Howard Fast. A fresh edition of plays by Lillian Hellman. Receiving pride of place, on the revolving display out front, were E.H. Carr's new book on the Soviet Union, and another volume entitled _The Peace Imperative_ , written by one of Rose's most frequent clients, a now-ex State Department official who'd recently lost his job for arguing against American involvement in Korea.

Over Rose's desk, an autographed picture of Eleanor Roosevelt, standing between Rose and another woman, tall, pale, with a wan smile between pride and embarrassment. The inscription read:

 _ **"To Rose and Pearl - thank you for helping make this country better!"**_

Look around and you would see other photographs. A group portrait of Rose with the store's staff and clientele. A laminated copy of her first newsletter, mimeographed on cheap paper, the ink smeared and the font slightly off-center, announcing Carleton Beals' latest on American exploitation of Latin America. And a campaign poster for Henry Wallace, the one-time Vice President and Commerce Secretary dismissed by Harry Truman for urging piece with the Soviet Union, who ran as a third party candidate in 1948 and destroyed his reputation. Somewhat faded and frayed, but left untouched.

Only after taking all this would you notice another display, in the far corner behind the periodicals. A broken car mirror in a glass display case, carefully preserved as if in a museum. The mirror's glass shattered, the metal frame twisted. Further in the case were other implements of battle: several rocks, a torn, bloody piece of clothing, a bloodstained souvenir program. Most of the words were illegible, but the key remained visible:

 **PEEKSKILL**

Then you might go into the backroom. It was exceedingly modest: a small wooden podium with a microphone, a few tables, an empty space for audience chairs and a reception area. Today it was sparse and empty, nothing in it.

In previous times, it hadn't been. Eleanor Roosevelt, of course, had spoken here. As had assorted other government officials. Henry Wallace visited without making a formal speech. Alger Hiss, after his congressional testimony but before being charged with perjury for espionage. Howard Fast, a close friend of Rose. Paul Robeson, the singer, actor and black activist, close friend (and, rumor had it, an ex-lover) of Sarodynx Brown, renowned musical performer, one of Rose's closest friends.

In previous times, it had been a place of lively debate and passionate argument. Beliefs, commonplace and dangerous. Expressions of faith and love and commitment. Some noble, others badly misguided, but never dull, always exciting. The electricity of minds at work, sparking off each other.

Today, it was quiet, empty, and cold. Like a morgue.

As indeed was the store.

Because Rose Quartz was dead.

* * *

 **EXCERPT FROM TESTIMONY OF ROSE QUARTZ, 27 JUNE 1950**

 **BEFORE THE HOUSE COMMITTEE ON UN-AMERICAN ACTIVITIES COMMITTEE**

 **THE HONORABLE JOHN S. WOOD (D-GA), PRESIDING**

 _Mr. WOOD: We convene this committee today, of course, under the most grave and trying of circumstances. Across the world in Korea, we are seeing the true face of Communist aggression in its most malignant form, stamping the boot heel of Marxist oppression across the face of a small, free nation without cause or provocation. A blatant act of aggression and tyranny, as inexcusable and monstrous as any action perpetrated by Mr. Hitler or General Tojo in the late war. Even as we speak, American boys are joining the gallant South Koreans in defense of freedom, which might make our proceedings seem small, even trivial in comparison._

 _Nonetheless, it is my firm belief that the work we do here at home is equally important. If anything, the fact that we are now directly fighting Communism in Asia makes our work confronting the henchmen of Marx and Stalin at home all the more vital . Never let anyone in this country feel that we are not doing enough to combat the subversive elements within our midst. All it takes is one spy, one subversive thought written down or whispered in an unsuspected, uncritical ear, to do the utmost damage to our Republic and everything it stands for. That is why we are here._

 _I believe the gentleman from California would like to make a statement, as well._

 _Mr. NIXON: Thank you, Mr. Chairman. I can only agree with my honorable colleague's statement. Communism, both at home and abroad, is the paramount threat facing this nation today and the events in Asia over the past three days have shown that it is a menace to everyone everywhere, no matter how much we try to appease or coddle or downplay, no matter how much the misguided and the naive pretend that it's not a problem. Everywhere someone desires to live in peace, everywhere a man goes to work, a woman prepares meals or a child lays their head, they are menaced by Communism. It is our solemn duty to prevent that menace from overtaking everything. We can only act - and pray that we are not too late._

 _Mr. WOOD: Thank you, Mr. Nixon. Mr. Wheeler, will you please swear in the first witness?_

 _(Witness takes the oath.)_

 _Mr. WHEELER: Your name for the record?_

 _Miss QUARTZ: Rose Quartz._

 _Mr. WHEELER: Could you spell that last name for us?_

 _Miss QUARTZ: Q-U-A-R-T-Z._

 _Mr. WHEELER: And could your counsel identify himself for the record._

 _Mr. PARKINS: Mr. Elliot Parkins, Attorney at Law._

 _Mr. WHEELER: Miss Quartz, where do you live?_

 _Miss QUARTZ: I currently reside at 1030 17th Street, the same location as my bookshop._

 _Mr. WHEELER: What is your occupation?_

 _Miss QUARTZ: I am a bookseller._

 _Mr. WHEELER: What is the name of your bookstore?_

 _Miss QUARTZ: Rose's Cooperative Bookshop._

 _Mr. WHEELER: Cooperative. What does that mean?_

 _Miss QUARTZ: We operate as a cooperative, or co-op. Meaning that customers are required to become members of the bookshop in exchange for purchase and subscriptions._

 _Mr. WHEELER: Subscriptions to what?_

 _Miss QUARTZ: Our book of the month and our newsletter._

 _Mr. WHEELER: What is the name of your newsletter?_

 _Miss QUARTZ: Rose Knows._

 _Mr. WHEELER: Rose...Nos? Nose?_

 _Miss QUARTZ: Knows, K-N-O-W-S._

 _Mr. WHEELER: I see. Knows what?_

 _Miss QUARTZ: I'm sorry._

 _Mr. WHEELER: Knows what? What does Rose know?_

 _Miss QUARTZ: Quite a few things, I'd like to think. But in this particular instance, I just liked the pun._

 _Mr. WHEELER: The pun?_

 _Miss QUARTZ: Or, I suppose it's not really a pun. Just a rhyme._

 _Mr. WHEELER: I see. A rhyme with no deeper significance, then?_

 _Miss QUARTZ: Correct._

 _Mr. WHEELER: When you say this is a cooperative, how many members do you have?_

 _Miss QUARTZ: My last count was 240 dues-paying members._

 _Mr. WHEELER: Does that imply there are not dues-paying members?_

 _Miss QUARTZ: No, I would just suggest to Mr. Wheeler that he needn't examine my every turn of phrase for hidden cryptographic meanings._

 _Mr. WOOD: Mr. Wheeler, please allow me to interrupt here. Miss Quartz, I understand you are a very intelligent and clever woman, and I appreciate that as I'm sure all of my colleagues do. Reading all those books must do wonders for your mind. But I would caution you, as I'm sure your counsel has done, to treat this hearing with the proper amount of gravity. This isn't a book club or a knitting circle where being clever is an asset, or where questions can be playfully pushed aside. You're expected to answer questions truthfully and without any unnecessary interjections or digressions. Now, I'm sure you understand._

 _Miss QUARTZ: Thank you, Mr. Chairman. Let me assure the Honorable Gentlemen of this chamber that I am fully aware of the gravity of this hearing. I know that I'm being accused of many things, from being a Communist sympathizer to being an active agent of the Ministry for State Security, which is of course preposterous. All of which could lead to imprisonment, fines, many types of censure that aren't so easily quantifiable. But I do not think the charges are, at base, serious ones, and I do not think the truth can be arrived it through silliness and condescension. Or that Communism is more of a menace to this great country than the people who deign to destroy it in the name of Freedom. Or that women, whether we inhabit book clubs or knitting circles or indeed the inner circles of government, like your colleague Miss Diamond, are fully capable of intelligent thought and discernment. Perhaps if the Chairman would read some of my books, he'd recognize that_ _._

 _Mr. WOOD: I would like Miss Quartz's last remark stricken from the record. I will also remind the gallery that any further outburst or demonstrate will result in the clearing of this hearing room._

 _Miss DIAMOND: Mr. Chairman, if I may? I feel compelled to answer since my name was brought into this conversation._

 _Mr. WOOD: The Chair recognizes his honorable colleague, Miss Diamond from Connecticut._

 _Miss DIAMOND: Miss Quartz is correct that there are women in government, and women in our country who are capable of achieving great things. But no woman who ever followed the siren song of Communism was ever a great woman. Women who uphold everything decent and good about America are not to be compared with women who would tear it down in service of a wicked ideology and the perversions of common decency propagated by women like you. Therefore, I would suggest Miss Quartz keep in mind who she is addressing when she makes comments like that, and that she not ever again draw comparisons between myself and her. In every way that counts, we are different._

 _Miss QUARTZ: I beg to differ, ma'am. We are more alike then you'd care to think._

 _Mr. WOOD: Miss Quartz, I would caution you to mind your tongue or you can and will be cited with contempt._

 _Miss QUARTZ: I would expect nothing less, Mr. Chairman._

 _Mr. WOOD: Thank you, Miss Diamond. Mr. Wheeler, please continue._

* * *

Pearl wasn't surprised by Rose's death. Horrified, sure, and angry, and sad all at once. But not surprised, exactly.

Not in June 1950. Not when the country was mad with fear at anyone and anything different. And not considering who Rose was, and what she believed in.

In fact, Pearl knew precisely who to blame. And once she gathered her thoughts, she took it out on its nearest manifestation.

"They've been trying to destroy her for so long," she said into the phone, screaming hysterically at her sister. "People like your **dear friend** Congresswoman Diamond. You think that Rose was a danger to democracy because she sold fucking books. And now you've killed her."

"Now Pearl, calm down!" her sister yelled back. "I understand you're upset..."

"You don't understand a fucking thing, Sienna."

"Pearl, watch your language."

"Oh, _screw_ off, you little witch. I'm not about to listen to your rationalizations and your calls for civility when your side is fucking murdering people."

Pearl couldn't remember the last time she'd been so angry. Her chest was heaving with rage, her heartbeat thumping in her ears. She took a few deep breaths, hearing Sienna talking to her but not really digesting the words.

"...you can't honestly blame us for Rose _killing_ herself. I mean..."

 _Of course_ there was a lie already out there. That Rose killed herself.

How convenient. She testifies before HUAC, tells the Congressional committee off in no uncertain terms. Unbowed, unbroken, proud. Just like Rose always was.

She remembered her last conversation with Rose, the night before. Boasting about how she'd put those bastards in her place, and how the whole thing was a sham, and that they had no case against her or the bookshop. And then asking, practically pleading, Pearl for a chance to have dinner. They hadn't seen each other in so long...

And despite everything, how could Pearl say no?

And then she dies, and they blame it on **her**. Because that's easiest way out.

Because it makes the most sense.

Unless you knew Rose. And knew that she'd never, **ever** kill herself.

"You aren't going to sell me on that, Sienna," Pearl barked. "I don't know what Diamond told you...Rose would never do that."

"Pearl...maybe Rose Quartz wasn't who you thought she was. Maybe she was..."

And she left that thought hanging in mid-air, as if terrified of completing the thought. Then she sighed, and added:

"Pearl...some people just want to die."

Pearl imagined herself strangling Sienna, and smirked.

"Nobody knows Rose better than **me** ," she hissed, before hanging up the phone.

* * *

Maybe that was true, once. But now?

How could Pearl be sure?

There was one other person who _might_ know. But they were barely on speaking terms.

"Pearl, it's Greg."

"Greg."

"Listen, I heard about Rose...I don't know what to say."

"She's dead, Greg. They got her. I don't know how, but they did it."

"Maybe you're right, Pearl. But that seems...I dunno, a little wild to just throw out there, you know?"

"It's true. I just need to find evidence."

"I'm not a policeman, Pearl. But that's...not how it works. Fitting evidence to match something you've already decided? I mean, that's what Rose's friends at HUAC do..."

"I'm not a policeman either, Greg. But I know Rose, and...so do you." Then she added, as acidly as she could, "I **thought**."

A pause on the other end. Just Greg's heavy breathing. And Pearl realized, with not a little satisfaction, that she'd cut straight to the bone.

"Well, anyway. I called to see how you were doing." His voice sounded flat and perfunctory.

"Since when do you care about _me_ , anyway?" Pearl demanded.

"Since your best friend and the woman you loved died," he said, resigned to her anger. "I thought...maybe you needed someone to share your feelings with. Someone else who...knows her."

He wasn't wrong about _that_. But talking to her sister made Pearl furious, and talking to him was...no, she wasn't going to open herself up to him.

Not now. Maybe not ever.

"I'm fine, Greg," Pearl said. "As fine as could be considering Rose just died."

And she hung up, not letting him say another word. And, after another minute, punched the wall.

 _The cheek of that bastard!_ she thought.

She started rolling herself a cigarette, but her hands were trembling too much. She spilled tobacco all over her desk, and ended up sweeping it all into a dustbin. Some brown-and-red flecks clung to her shirt sleeve and she couldn't wipe them off.

Unable to smoke, she walked over to her bed and sat down, fiddling with her hair. A day's inattention had turned her up-do into a shaggy pink mess, and it was too late for her to do anything about it.

She shook her head and let the last stubborn strands fall down around her shoulders. If she was gonna be disorganized,

She felt tired, and a little frustrated. And very, very angry. But she didn't feel sad, at least any more.

Sure, when she'd first seen Rose's body, she'd wept horribly. She cried so long and loud and intensely that she terrified the coroner and the two police officers who'd brought her to the morgue. They'd had to restrain her and given her a sedative in an attempt to calm her down.

For that matter, she'd cried all the way back to her apartment. Cried for a solid hour or more, until all the mascara and make-up ran down her face, until her shirt front was smeared with a gross pallet of tear-infused sadness. Cried every time she thought about Rose, and remembered how happy she'd been, and how she'd hurt Pearl, and how that didn't matter because she still loved her more than anyone on Earth.

But now, Pearl was done crying.

Now Pearl felt a flame growing inside her, a spark of defiance that grew with each passing thought.

Now Pearl had to find out the truth.

But where to start?


	2. Chapter 2

Rose's apartment smelled exactly like Pearl remembered. That weird smell of old wood and stale coffee and burnt candles with a faint hint of citrusy floor cleaner. On the kitchen table, a small bottle of wine, half-drunk. The sink filled with dirty dishes and unwashed glasses. A thin film of dust on the counter. Pictures of Rose with her friends, with Pearl, with Greg. A movie poster for _How Green Was My Valley_ , Rose's favorite.

Her bed was a rumpled mess of sheets - Rose did a terrible job at cleaning up after herself, leaving Pearl to do it. Pearl grimaced, imagining that Greg didn't do much cleaning.

Instinctively, Pearl began folding up the blanket. She looked in the bed and saw the imprints of two bodies - Rose's, and...his. Without really thinking she leaned down and put a hand on the mattress. Cold. She watched the mattress slowly spring back into place, then sighed, thinking of how much time she'd spent in that bed.

Then she folded the blanket over the mattress, fluffed the pillows, and walked into the kitchenette, brushing off her hands.

She eyed the wine bottle and contemplated pouring herself a drink. Couldn't. She had to keep her mind focused or this thing would swallow her whole.

Instead she stood there, leaning over the table, tapping her finger against the wood. Lost in thought and memories.

Nothing in the apartment offered much help. There wasn't a note, like one would expect with a real suicide. No pills and only a small straight razor, still gunky with Greg's stubble and soap scum. No one had evidently broken in, either. As far as Pearl could tell, the police hadn't even been here yet.

Pearl took one last wistful look around the apartment before deciding to leave. She walked past Rose's bed, shivering subconsciously, then stopped. Saw that Rose still had a picture of her and Pearl from way back in 1944, not long into their relationship, at an event held at the Bookshop.

Pearl marveled at how young and fresh she looked, her tight black top and striped leggings. It made her look - sexy. Mostly she was shocked at how happy she appeared, just to be next to Rose, who seemed ageless.

She slipped the picture under her arm, and exited the apartment, turning the lights out as she went.

* * *

 **EXCERPT FROM TESTIMONY OF ROSE QUARTZ, 27 JUNE 1950**

 **BEFORE THE HOUSE COMMITTEE ON UN-AMERICAN ACTIVITIES**

 **THE HONORABLE JOHN S. WOOD (D-GA), PRESIDING**

 _Mr. WALTER: Miss Quartz, I appreciate that I might seem abrupt in asking this, but there are only so many ways to beat around the bush. So, let's get on with it. Are you now, or have you ever, been a member of the Communist Party?_

 _Miss QUARTZ: That's the $64 question, isn't it?_

 _Mr. WALTER: Why, yes, I suppose that is. Which is why I want to clear the air before we get too far into your questioning._

 _Miss QUARTZ: Well, I can say with absolute, one hundred percent, under oath truthfulness that I, Rose Quartz, have not ever been a member of the Communist Party._

 _Mr. WALTER: Thank you, ma'am._

 _Mr. WOOD: I now defer to the Gentlewoman from Connecticut._

 _Miss DIAMOND: Thank you, Mr. Chairman. My colleague from Pennsylvania has asked you an important question. I am glad that he did, and I'm equally glad you answered it. However, with all due respect to Mr. Walter, I feel he asked it in a way that allows imperfect, imprecise answers which obfuscate rather than elucidate. So, I will phrase it another way: are you a Communist?_

 _Miss QUARTZ: Are **you** , Miss Diamond?_

 _Mr. WOOD: Miss Quartz, you have been warned several times during today's hearing that such responses will not reflect well on you. One more and this committee will hold you in contempt._

 _Miss QUARTZ: With all due respect, Mr. Chairman, I'm tired of answering the same few questions over and over again. It resolves nothing. Far be it for me, a lowly bookstore owner, to suggest questions to a member of Congress..._

 _Mr. WOOD: Indeed. And I suggest you keep that in mind before I have the sergeant-at-arms remove you. No matter what you think, ma'am, this is not a game._

 _Miss QUARTZ: I-Yes, sir._

 _Mr. WOOD: Miss Diamond, please resume your questioning._

* * *

"Tough times to be a free thinker in Washington," Peridot groused into her gin. "Everyone we know is being branded a Red or a pink or, worse, a queer. A subversive. A _security risk_. Can you imagine the clod who thought of that terminology? They can't prove we're dangerous, they can't think of actual reasons why two men or two women fucking each other is a fireable offense, so they pretend that we're a danger because of who we bump uglies with. Bullshit. Amazing colossal _bullshit_."

Pearl just leaned back in her chair, non-responsive. She breathed in cigarette smoke, watched the dim lights flicker on and off. Several couples crowded into booths and tables, hidden in shadows like criminals. A Perry Como song played on a scratchy record.

She didn't come to places like this too often. She could appreciate, in theory, the concept of a space to be safe, to be yourself, but acting like this seemed so...shameful. Like you were hiding some part of yourself. Like you hated yourself.

Pearl wasn't, really. She'd come to terms with being gay a long time ago, even if the rest of the world hadn't. Even if she hadn't talked to her parents since moving out to DC nine years ago. She preferred it to be a secret, in the sense that no one knew, but that she could still appear with Rose in public, and exchange inside jokes and hold hands under the table and not be ashamed that you knew this woman.

Still, Rose wasn't here any more. And Pearl needed someone to talk to. And Peridot was...better than nothing.

As Peridot talked, Pearl spotted two ladies, one a blonde with electric yellow hair, boldly dressed and confident looking, the other an older brunette, uncertain, in a matronly outfit, entering the bar together. The younger one whispered something into the older woman's ear. The older woman grimaced and gripped her partner's hand, then led her to a table to join two other women, enjoying drinks and cigarettes.

She grabbed a cigarette and stuffed into her mouth, lighting it as she spoke. And smiled in dim recognition of when she and Rose had been that couple. Only she had been more reticent of the two.

Meanwhile, Peridot described some stupid movie about astronauts visiting Mars. She loved that pulp sci-fi stuff, even if she always complained about the inaccuracies and improbabilities, which Pearl had no use for. But then, she rarely went to the pictures anyway. She preferred her novels or radio plays, things that required you to imagine and think and create your own world.

Still, she supposed that was Peridot's job. She worked for some government agency - Pearl could never remember which one - writing technical reports and bureaucratic documents that ended up unread in cabinets and archives somewhere. If she had any influence on policy, if she ever invented a niftier bridge or better A-bomb, she never mentioned it. She also wrote stories under a pseudonym, usually bad science fiction and fantasy stuff, full to bursting with gag-worthy cliches and wretched prose, but enough - just enough - to eek out a few extra dollars on the side.

Still, Peridot _seemed_ happy. So who was Pearl to judge?

"...Anyway, enough about Lloyd Bridges. I'm sorry about Rose."

Pearl exhaled a heavy cloud of cigarette smoke towards Peridot and turned, grimacing.

"Thanks."

"Do they know...? What happened to her?"

"They say she killed herself."

"And what do _you_ say?"

Pearl wondered how much she could trust her little blonde friend. Wondered if she was being drawn out, spied on. Or whether, at the very least, Peridot would blab it to someone.

"I'm not convinced what they say is true," Pearl said guardedly.

"Hmm. So you think...foul play?"

Pearl saw Peridot's face light up mischievously. She wasn't sure whether or not to resent it.

"It stinks," Pearl admitted. "Stinks to high heaven. Rose testifies before Congress, doesn't give them anything, just spars with the idiots interrogating her and then she winds up dead. You knew Rose a little, did she seem like the type who'd kill herself?"

"No," Peridot said, gulping down some more liquor.

"Exactly!" Pearl said, suddenly animated. "Rose was bragging to me after she testified. She was proud for telling off those imbeciles! She was ready to go back a second time just to plant one in their kissers. Especially that cunt Miss Diamond...And then she just dies. No note, no evident cause of death. That doesn't seem a little suspicious?"

"Maybe," Peridot agreed. "Maybe it seems that way. But you've gotta admit...being a hostile witness hasn't gotten anyone murdered before."

"True," Pearl conceded.

"I mean, these bastards...I'm not saying they'd be _morally_ above killing Rose for having a loud mouth...Rest in peace. But you know what I mean. They'd need a reason, a motive. And...I don't think that's it. They have other ways of destroying people they don't like."

Pearl took another drag on her cigarette, pondering Peridot's point. Maybe she was just trying to find meaning that wasn't there.

Maybe Rose just died. Maybe by her own hand, or maybe in some freakish accident. Or a heart attack. Or something commonplace.

Those things happen.

She remembered her sister's words... _Some people just want to die_.

"Unless..." Peridot interrupted again.

"Unless what?"

"She was about to tell them something they didn't want to hear."

Pearl stared quizzically at Peridot for a moment, processing the words. Then she nodded.

"Pearl, I didn't know Rose even a fraction as well as you," Peridot explained, warming to her explanation. "Patronized your store a few times, but that's really it. But, think about it. Think about...what did she know? Who did she know? She knew a lot of people. Inside Washington and out. People who were progressives, liberals, pinks, Reds, gay, lesbian, Americans, Canadians, Russians, diplomats, reporters, congressmen...God, she knew just about everyone from everywhere!"

Pearl nodded slowly, thoughtfully, realizing where Peridot was headed. Her friend's conclusion, then, seemed almost gratuitous:

"All it would take to destroy any of them was a secret. And maybe Rose...knew something."

"Peridot," Pearl said, "that's very profound."

"Profundity is one of my more agreeable qualities," Peridot said, before belching.

Pearl heard a snort, then a laugh, and saw a tall brunette dressed in a blue dress walk up to Peridot.

"Peridot, what are you up to over here?" she asked.

"Being profound?" Peridot said, turning back to her drink.

"Again?" the woman asked, folding her arms across her chest. "Don't you ever get tired of it?"

"Haven't yet," Peridot said.

"Oh, uh, Pearl," she sputtered, suddenly remembering her friend, and flustered again. "This is, uh, my date..."

"Lapis," the woman said, offering Pearl a hand. "Lapis Lazuli."

Pearl looked the woman up and down. Shaken by her ethereal beauty, her sparkling blue eyes and olive skin and jet black hair. And, most of all, a piece of blue-gold jewelry around her throat.

"I can see that," Pearl said in response.

"You wouldn't be after my woman, would you?" Lapis asked, arching an eyebrow playfully.

"I'm way out of Pearl's league," Peridot said. "You know that."

"I don't know about _that_ ," Lapis said, eyeing Pearl up. Pearl felt a lump in her throat, somewhat taken aback by the woman's hungry playfulness. But she soldiered on.

"I'm Pearl," she said finally.

"Oh, right," Lapis said. "You're, uh, Rose Quartz's friend."

"Yes. I was."

"I'm so sorry to hear about that. I never got to meet her, but Peridot assures me that she was..."

"Yeah, she _was_."

The two smiled awkwardly at each other for a moment. Now it was Peridot's turn to seem jealous.

"All right, you two, get a room. Or don't. Well, not unless I'm in it at the same time. I mean, not unless I'm there...Gaah."

Lapis laughed again. "Cool it, Peridot. Just making friends."

And she shot Pearl another look. Whatever _that_ meant.

"So, how did you two meet, anyway?" Pearl said, wanting to change the subject away from her.

"Mutual friends," Peridot said, clasping Lapis's hand and shooting Pearl a warning look.

"It's a bit more complicated than that," Lapis said, patting Peridot's hand gently. "I'm in the secretarial pool at office where Peridot's friend works. I, um, have been living here for awhile but I'm just starting to get the swing of things. It's hard to get used to the capital unless you have a government job...and even then..."

"Yeah."

"What did you do before?"

"Odd jobs."

An awkward pause. Lapis chewed her lip for a moment.

"I see. Well, I won't pry, it's none of my business..."

"That's okay, no harm in asking."

Pearl couldn't figure this woman out. Lapis seemed nervous, anxious, unsure of herself, a bit awkward when engaging in conversation. Like she was hiding something, or at least didn't want to tell too much.

But then she kept shooting Pearl THOSE looks. Playfully. Seductively. Like she was coming on to Pearl. Like she wanted to fuck her.

Which was extremely bold, especially with Peridot right there.

 _Maybe she just thinks you're gorgeous_ , Pearl told herself.

 _Don't flatter yourself_ , another voice came back. _Woman like her? Think I'm gorgeous?_

 _Strange enough that Rose would? Not this hot ticket._

"Well, I think it's time for me to take off," Pearl said, rubbing out her cigarette in the nearest ashtray. "I've had a long day, as you can imagine..."

"Oh, I'm sure," Lapis said. "Dealing with the death of a friend...Well, it was nice to meet you."

"Likewise."

"Just remember what I said," Peridot said.

"You said a lot tonight," Pearl reminded her. And Lapis laughed again.

"Well, good night anyway," Peridot huffed, finishing her drink.

Pearl walked past them. "You are so cute," she heard Lapis mutter to Peridot. "And you know such interesting people..."

"Pearl's not interesting. She's just...Well, she's Rose's girlfriend."

Pearl winced at that. _Rose's girlfriend._

Like that's all she could ever be.

The sadness returned, until she forced herself to swallow it.

She continued towards the door, ducking out of the light and pushing past a couple drunkenly trying to dance. She recognized a Cole Porter tune playing on the record.

Almost on a whim, she turned her head. She spotted the couple from earlier, the younger one engaged in conversation, the older one still looking petrified and out of place. And she smiled sympathetically.

Then she spotted another couple, sitting on an elevated table in the far back, with cigarette smoke swirling around them.

Pearl didn't recognize the woman on the right, who appeared shorter and was in any case largely hidden in shadow. But the light shone just right on the person on the right. And Pearl thought she looked familiar.

A tall, graceful woman with dark blonde hair, styled backwards in a finger wave. Impeccably dressed in a tan business outfit and skirt. A string of Pearls around her neck.

Pearl exchanged the briefest of glances with the woman. She didn't recognize her, but she watched.

First, a flash of terror. Then a frantic scanning, searching her memory bank for any sign that she knew Pearl. Then, scanning Pearl's eyes to see if _she_ knew her. Then a wry, superior smirk, knowing that they both shared a secret and that it could destroy either, or both of them if revealed.

All played out through her eyes in a matter of seconds. Like a routine. Something she was used to doing every time she saw someone unexpected.

Which told Pearl that this woman had something to hide. But then, didn't everyone here?

She lingered for a moment before stepping out into the street. Looked around, more from habit than from expecting anyone to see her. Then, when she was safely a few blocks away, lit a fresh cigarette.

* * *

Pearl didn't linger or think too much about that exchange when she went home. She'd seen a lot of famous, or recognizable people come into the bar, secure in the knowledge that no one there would rat them out to the press or whomever. And frankly, Pearl didn't care.

Until she reached her apartment. And saw two uniformed policemen standing on the stoop.

"Miss Pearl Nacre?" one of them asked.

"Yes?" Pearl said.

"We've been looking for you."

And Pearl's face sank.

"What? Have I done something wrong?" She tried to keep cool, even as she felt the heartbeat pounding at her temples.

"No, we don't think so," the officer said, a little sheepish. "It's just...we know you knew Rose Quartz."

"I see."

"We have a few questions to ask you, if you have a minute."

Pearl looked from one officer to the other, sizing up her chances.

"Here?" she asked.

"Inside, if you don't mind."

Pearl turned her head, looking for an escape route. She saw the car parked a few feet away, and thought she could make out a third officer, lighting a cigarette in the front seat. And she saw a few people starting to gather across the street. Realizing there would be a commotion if she ran or tried to do anything.

Finally, she turned resignedly to the officers.

"Why not?"


	3. Chapter 3

The police stayed until around midnight. Long after Pearl's patience and tolerance for being hounded about her dead girlfriend wore thin. Especially since the officers clearly had no interest in her answers unless they confirmed what they wanted to hear.

"Listen ma'am, hate to break it to ya, but your dead friend was a fucking Commie. So far as that's concerned, I'm not terribly upset about her death. Good riddance, if I'm being blunt. But it's our job to find out what happened to her. And anything you could tell us...well, if someone hurt her, it could help get justice for her. Such as she deserved."

Pearl restrained herself from throwing a cup of coffee in his face. Instead she shrunk into herself and clenched her mouth, as she usually did when confronted with someone she didn't like or respect.

She told them very little. What **could** she tell them? She didn't know any more about Rose's death than they did.

As the conversation dragged on, though, she gathered that the police were searching for something specific. Sure, there were the usual questions about the last time she'd seen Rose, if there were anyone who'd want to hurt her - banal stuff Pearl expected, and couldn't answer.

But then there were other questions...curiously specific ones...which piqued Pearl's interest.

"Did Rose ever meet with any members of Congress, anyone highly placed?"

"There were notables who frequented her store, yes."

"Okay. Members of both parties?"

"Mostly Democrats and...groups farther left. The occasional Republican who wanted something he couldn't find elsewhere."

"Hmm. Specialist literature?"

"I suppose."

"Do you know if Rose kept a diary or a log?"

"A diary?"

Pearl racked her brain for memory of something like that. But no, nothing came to mind.

"Yeah, anything where she recorded what she did in a given day, who she met with?"

"I _know_ what a diary is."

"No need to get snippy, ma'am."

"No need to treat me like a moron, sir."

"Some lady _you_ are."

"Some gentleman that you'd go form condescension to abuse so easily."

"Some women bring it upon themselves."

"If all you're going to do is insult me, I'll have to ask you...erm, gentlemen to leave. Unless of course, you have a warrant..."

The acid dripped from Pearl's voice. The officer's face turned beet red; he looked ready to deck her.

"Sorry, ma'am," the second officer broke in, scowling at his partner, who folded his arms and began pacing around the apartment.

"Look," the nicer one began, apologetic but firm. "I realize this is a hard thing to deal with, and...we don't wanna push you too hard. But we have to ask these questions, you know? It's our job. And we are trying to find the truth."

"Hmm. Well, I've known Rose for going on eight years and I never knew that she kept a diary."

"You never knew? So there's a chance?"

Pearl smiled smugly, crossing her legs and pointing the toe of her heel accusingly at the officers.

"She never kept a diary," she said in her haughtiest, most condescending voice. Then she added, with savage finality: "If she did, I would have known."

She noted the officers' impassive stares. They exchanged a glance, then the second officer spoke up again.

"Miss Nacre, I'm sure you know what people said about Rose..."

"What _didn't_ they say about Rose?" Pearl scoffed, leaning back in the chair. "I heard just about everything in the book."

"Hmm. Well, you know people thought she was a Communist agent?"

Pearl laughed scornfully at that one.

"Ma'am, this is quite serious..."

"Sorry...I thought you were going to tell me something I _hadn't_ heard."

"Had you heard that she was running a spy ring out of your little bookshop?"

Pearl stopped herself from laughing for a moment, though she couldn't stifle a contemptuous smirk.

"Actually, no, I _hadn't_ heard that one. What on _Earth_ would she be spying on?"

"Cut the crap, ma'am," the first officer interjected, sick of playing nice. "Your dear departed pal was a Red, like we said. That's bad enough since this country's at war for its very survival. Even worse that she sold this trash literature telling Americans that their country isn't any good and we ought to be more like Russia. Worse still that she did in the nation's capital with so many prominent clientele. Worst of all that she's giving secrets to a foreign government."

It took Pearl a moment to process that. Her head spun around and she suddenly felt sick. But mostly, she felt angry.

"Get out of my apartment," Pearl said, her voice a low, ragged growl.

"You aren't getting off..." the first officer began, pointing an accusatory finger at Pearl.

The second officer blocked his partner and interjected.

"It is late, Barry," he said gently, grabbing his arm and pulling it down. "and we've been here a few hours. Let's let Miss Nacre alone. I'm sure she has some thinking to do."

"What's there to think about?" Barry snapped. His partner shot him a glare and he brushed past them into the hallway.

"We'll be in touch, ma'am," the second officer said, forcing a smile. "Thanks for your time and...I'm sorry for your loss."

Pearl didn't respond, noting the accusation in the words. He tipped his cap and exited the apartment, closing the door.

Pearl sat there, listening to Barry's parting gibe:

"Fucking Commie _dykes_."

Pearl heard the glass shatter and saw the shards sprinkling on the table.

Somehow it didn't register that she'd shattered it until she saw blood dripping from her palm.

* * *

After bandaging her hand, Pearl sat there replaying the interrogation in her mind. She put on a Cole Porter record, hoping to focus her thoughts.

Every time she replayed the information, it felt worse. The rage and uncertainty triggered by the accusation consumed her. The soothing, familiar melodies didn't help her at all.

Rose, a _spy_? A secret agent?

Of _course_ they'd say that.

It was preposterous.

It was ridiculous.

It was stupid.

Just another slur conjured by ignorant reactionaries to slur a good woman.

Just because she believed in progress.

Just because she was _different_.

And yet the thought remained, stained into Pearl's mind.

It wouldn't make sense. Not her Rose.

Not because she considered it unconscionable. Or that she found espionage, even treason, all that awful, especially given the country's current state.

Rather, because it didn't seem right for a different reason.

Because it would have meant that Rose never told Pearl. That she kept something monumental from Pearl for years. Despite how close they were.

That she violated their mutual pledges of trust and confidence at every turn.

The thought made Pearl sick to her stomach, even as her mind tried processing it.

It was absurd.

But what if it were _true_?

She heard the record skip as it reached the end. And let it play, regardless.

* * *

 **EXCERPT FROM TESTIMONY OF ROSE QUARTZ, 27 JUNE 1950**

 **BEFORE THE HOUSE COMMITTEE ON UN-AMERICAN ACTIVITIES**

 **THE HONORABLE JOHN S. WOOD (D-GA), PRESIDING**

 _Mr. NIXON: Miss Quartz, the reason we're here today isn't because of your associations, although I and several of my colleagues would consider them damning enough. Rather, we have come into possession of information that we find particularly alarming. Are you familiar with a Soviet agent called Muscovite?_

 _Miss QUARTZ: I am not aware of anyone by that name._

 _Mr. NIXON: Have you been in contact with any Soviet nationals within the past five years?_

 _Miss QUARTZ: Yes._

 _Mr. NIXON: Who are they?_

 _Miss QUARTZ: Members of the Embassy's diplomatic staff, occasionally a reporter or tourist._

 _Mr. NIXON: What is the nature of your interaction with them?_

 _Miss QUARTZ: Like other diplomats, they would occasionally patronize my bookstore._

 _Mr. NIXON: To purchase books?_

 _Miss QUARTZ: Yes._

 _Mr. NIXON: And nothing else?_

 _Miss QUARTZ: What else do you have in mind?_

 _Mr. WOOD: Again, that is non-responsive. Answer Mr. Nixon's question._

 _Miss QUARTZ: Nothing other than the purchase of books and periodicals._

 _Mr. NIXON: And what sort of books and periodicals?_

 _Miss QUARTZ: I recall Howard Fast novels being popular._

 _Mr. NIXON: You are aware that Mr. Fast has himself been called before this committee?_

 _Miss QUARTZ: Indeed._

 _Mr. NIXON: Do you find yourself sympathizing with his work?_

 _Miss QUARTZ: I find that he has many ideas which I find invigorating, and some consider dangerous._

 _Mr. NIXON: Such as?_

 _Miss QUARTZ: The idea that the United States of America was founded as a pure, admirable idea that has been corrupted over the years and needs to be restored._

 _Mr. NIXON: How were these ideas corrupted, in your estimation?_

 _Miss QUARTZ: The failings of Man._

 _Mr. NIXON: And through what methods would you affect its restoration?_

 _Miss QUARTZ: Education, primarily._

 _Mr. NIXON: Education meaning?_

 _Miss QUARTZ: Teaching people about the problems in our great country and how to make the country better...taking advice from history to do it. I mean, who could object to Thomas Paine._

 _Mr. NIXON: Mr. Chairman, I would like to continue my questioning, but unfortunately I have a prior engagement with my constituents in California. Before departing, however, I would like to say this: this is precisely the very method through which the Communists seek to undermine our government. Through misleading appeals to early America, the truism that Man is Fallen and therefore that they need to be corrected. Well, I don't think any of us would disagree. But the corrections that we envision to make this country stronger do not involve the introduction of insidious Communist propaganda and the undermining of our very system of government, the belief in our righteousness and the introduction of foreign ideologies into our country. It is through these subtle, deceitful methods that the Communists seek to destroy us, through the illusion that it will make us stronger. Well, I for one reject this method and I urge all of my fellow Americans to do the same._

 _Mr. WOOD: Thank you, Mr. Nixon. I appreciate your passion for this subject, but I would remind you this is not a rally or a stump speech in Sacramento. I will also remind you that this is the House of Representatives. You will need to conduct your Senate campaign on your own time...as I assume you are doing this afternoon._

 _Mr. NIXON: I, uh, yield the remainder of my time to the Chair._

* * *

Greg's head was already pounding by the time he reached the apartment. He'd been out drinking that night, unable to think of another way to deal with grief.

Well, if you could _call_ it grief.

Mostly, Greg felt numb. He was having a hard time processing Rose's death, even though she and him had been together for almost a year. It just didn't make sense. There was no warning, no premonition, nothing. Just...one day and she was gone.

He'd sloughed off the police and spent most of the day staggering around Washington, trying to get his head straight. Trying to make some sense of it.

Talking to her friends didn't help; they were shocked as he was. Offering the palliative of grief and commiseration, but no answers. Talking with Pearl sure didn't help. The police wanted answers from him, answers he didn't have. All he had was memories and music.

Rose's politics were intellectual; his were visceral. He grew up in a working class Italian family, where every day was a struggle and no meal was guaranteed. He didn't couch his worldview in abstractions about the proletariat and the Revolution but instead in bare feet, empty bellies and a cold, unheated house that killed his youngest sister one particularly bitter winter. Or in an uncle, organizing a union in a steel mill, lynched by the Pinkertons when Greg was still a kid. It was easy for him to be a radical.

Then, unable to find full-time work in the depression, he began writing music. It was one of the only talents he had, but he was good at it. Plaintive ballads about growing up poor, about trying to make a hardscrabble living in an unforgiving world. About the inequities of the Depression which savaged the poor while leaving the rich largely untouched. About the pain of being someone labeled a wop and a dago in his youth, a vagrant and a bum as a young adult, a Commie and a pinko as a grown man.

His lifestyle didn't make him much money; his songs had a limited audience. He was acquainted with Woody Guthrie and Pete Seeger, but only aspired to their fame, recognition and talent. (Indeed, one of the few mainstream music writers to notice his last album labeled him "a cut-rate Guthrie, wailing about the proletariat with conviction but no discernible skill or insight.") He drifted from hotel to hotel, barely making enough money to stay alive, forming connections without real bonds or depth, wondering whether there was any point going on.

Until he met Rose, at Peekskill, amidst the bloodshed and panic of a concert gone horribly wrong. And everything seemed to change.

Now he had nothing.

He stumbled up the stairs, humming tunelessly to drown out the thudding in his head. Fumbled for the key in his pocket.

He was sober enough to notice that the door was unlocked and slightly ajar. When the realization finally reached his brain, he stood there with trepidation.

He heard a cough and a rustling noise from within.

Slowly, he turned the knob, more annoyed than scared at the prospect of an intruder. Figured it must be a police or a detective.

He saw two men in the middle of Rose's apartment. One was a tall, lanky man in a trench coat, his gloved hands sorting through a ream of papers. The other was a shorter, swarthy, heavyset man in an incongruous seersucker suit.

"Greg Universe?" he asked, smiling. His voice had a honeyed Southern drawl. His partner looked up only briefly from his work.

"Can I help you gentlemen?" Greg growled, stepping forward. He felt his knee tremble, hoping that he could stand up straight enough for a fight.

"Sorry to trouble you," the short man said.

Greg started to say something in response until he saw the man aiming a gun at him.

 **BANG!**

Greg fell down the stairs with a cry. He landed hard on his funny bone, which stunned him. Only when he looked down and saw blood staining his shirt did he realize he'd been shot.

Greg mumbled unintelligible syllables as he staggered to his feet, balancing himself against the wall.

Now he felt the bullet - warm blood puddling from his shoulder, a deep, stabbing pain within him. He coughed and managed to feel his way to the door.

He heard footsteps behind him. Felt a surge of desperate strength, throwing himself into the street as another shot crashed into the door overhead, splintering the wood.

Greg rolled over on his back, staring at the sky for a long minute.

He waited for the man to step out and finish him off.

Instead, two passers-by spotted him. Two women who seemed a little liquored up, walking with locked arms, stepping over his body, then taking a step back to stare down at him.

A tall woman dressed in blue. A short woman wearing green.

One of them - he couldn't tell which - screamed, loudly.

Then he lost consciousness.


End file.
